


Welcome to Fantasy Island

by growling_glanni



Category: Fantasy Island
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, This is what happens when I get bored, i have too much freetime, this is pretty much a novelisation of the first episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growling_glanni/pseuds/growling_glanni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the result of pure boredom. It's a mix between novelisation and fanfic. I wonder what would happen if my character Veronika, who if you read One More Miracle you'll know she's Tattoo's wife, would be a part of it all from the beginning, like she is in my AU. So yeah... I'm not taking credit for anything but Veronika, her dialogue, and the random bits that I come up with :)</p><p>[I'll have a better summary soon, I swear]! Dedicated to my best friend, Jen, who told me "Go for it!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mornings on the Island were Veronika's favourite. She sat in hers and Tattoo's room, in her chair, watching the palm trees sway in the calm winds. A few minutes later, the calm was broken by the sound of the bell in the tower ringing.

“The plane! The plane!” Tattoo exclaimed from the tower, heading down and taking his place next to Mr. Roarke. Veronika sat her tea down on the desk and headed outside to where her father and Tattoo were.

“Our guests are arriving on time to the second!” Roarke said, looking at his pocket-watch.

“They always do... and you always act like it's a miracle!” Tattoo replied, unimpressed.

“My dear Tattoo, when each guest is paying $50,000 for a three-day stay on Fantasy Island, he or she deserves miracles.”

“Right, Boss.”

Veronika couldn't help but laugh. “Didn't think we were miracle workers... learn something new every day, don't we, darling?” she said to Tattoo. Roarke looked at them annoyed, and continued on as they walked to the Jeep, which had arrived to take them to the dock, to greet their guests.

“I find it exhilarating each time they come. New people with new problems, new hopes, new fears... they are so...  _mortal_.”

Veronika helped Tattoo in and sat next to him, as Mr. Roarke sat up front in the passenger seat, and they were off to the docks.

***

The plane had landed and was skimming across the water, heading to its spot. At that same time, the Jeep pulled up and Roarke, Tattoo, and Veronika got out and took their places. 

“Smiles, everyone, smiles!” Roarke said, as the lovely ladies of the Island gathered round to greet the guests with leis, kisses, and drinks. He looked at Veronika who was perfectly poised as always. She reminded him so much of her mother... but that was a memory he was not willing to revisit. He then glanced down to Tattoo and had to do a double-take.

“Button your jacket, Tattoo!” he snapped.  _Sometimes, Tattoo can be so_   _unprofessional!,_  he thought to himself. Tattoo buttoned his jacket, reluctantly.

Everyone then turned their attention to the plane. A middle-aged man with a moustache, wearing a blue suit, exited and looked around, his look a mix of anxious and curious.

“Who is he, father?” Veronika whispered.

“Mr. Arnold Greenwood, all the way from World War II.”

Veronika and Tattoo exchanged a confused look, but said nothing.

The man walked down the dock, as another man, slightly younger than he, exited the plane. He wore a greyish brown suit, and a tight-fitting necklace that Veronika was sure would fly off and kill someone if the man swallowed too hard. The man seemed bewildered by his surroundings.

Roarke continued introducing the guests, telling Veronika and Tattoo that the man who had just exited—Mr. Killer Necklace, as Veronika had started referring to him as—was a man by the name of Paul Henley.

“Not so long ago, he was the most famous hunter in Africa. Hemingway would've loved him.”

Veronika groaned. She HATED hunters and found the sport of hunting to be absolutely horrifying.

Tattoo looked at Roarke. “Who is Hemingway?” he asked.

Roarke shook his head in disappointment.

Just then, an older lady, a redhead, wearing a red skirt and blazer exited the plane. She held herself with quite a snobbish demeanour.

“That is Mrs. Eunice Hollander-Baines.” Roarke said.

“...she has a stick up her arse it seems.”

Tattoo stifled a laugh as Roarke turned to his daughter.

“Veronika. How many times have I told you never to be disrespectful when it comes to a guest?”

Veronika was holding back her own laughter. “Sorry, father. It won't happen again.”

“Time magazine's Woman Executive of the Year.” Tattoo said, referencing Mrs. Hollander-Baines. Veronika made a fake impressed face, much to her father's dismay. Roarke turned his attention back to Tattoo. 

“Who is Time Magazine?” he asked, mocking Tattoo, who glared at him. “Mrs. Hollander-Baines is all the way from Pennsylvania for a funeral.”

“A funeral?” Veronika asked, perplexed, as she knew nearly everything going on on the Island.. “Who died?”

Roarke didn't answer, he instead took his drink from one of the island girls (Veronika was quite sure that was Keahi, one of the girls she had went to school with), and raised it to his guests in a toast.

“Dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island.”

Everyone returned the cheer, except Mrs. Hollander-Baines, who sternly glared at her hosts. Veronika and Tattoo looked at one another, with a look that said “oh boy, we're in for it now”.

Roarke stared back at his guests, albeit a bit darkly, and said:  _“Welcome to Fantasy Island, indeed...”_


	2. Chapter 2

The guests went back to the main house with Roarke, Tattoo, and Veronika. Outside the house, were tables set up with food, so the guests could enjoy a bit to eat before the start of their fantasies. They were enjoying food and drink, while Tattoo and Veronika helped to tend to everyone.

Roarke stood by a table, observing the guests. His observation was interrupted when Arnold Greenwood walked over to him, drink in hand.

“Fantasy Island... it's a wonderful name, a wonderful place... your idea?” he asked, walking around the front area with Roarke.

“I... was consulted.” Roarke answered, not one to give any secrets away. 

“Oh.. I see you'd rather not say. I respect that. I made a fortune keeping the other guy guessing. Chain drug stores...” Arnold could see Roarke was getting bored with their conversation, so he quickly changed the subject. “Well... as you know, I was a journalist during World War II... well, a reporter anyway, but two months after the war I quit, I couldn't--” 

“Excuse me,” Eunice Hollander-Baines interrupted, turning her attention to Roarke, “I'd like to go to my room.”

“Oh, certainly.” Roarke replied. “Tattoo?” he called.

The diminutive man walked over: “Yes, sir?”

“Show Mrs. Hollander-Baines to her bungalow, please.”

“Yes, sir!” he replied, turning to Eunice. “This way, ma'am.”

Tattoo walked off with her following. Veronika watched the both of them walk off, muttering to herself about how Eunice had a very cold demeanor--therefore must have icicles where the sun doesn't shine--then becoming distracted by a man walking by with a tray of pina coladas.

 

Roarke and Arnold also watched them walk off, before the latter spoke: “She never spoke word one on the plane. Who is she?”

Roarke seemed slightly appalled. “A firm rule on Fantasy Island, Mr. Greenwood, no questions ever about another client. Your paths won't cross again.”

“I understand... her fantasy is personal, like mine. Well, where was I? Oh yes... some wholesale drugs--”

Roarke interrupted, as Veronika walked over to them. “Mr. Greenwood, I already know your past, completely—or you wouldn't be here. You're rich and alone, wife deceased, children grown and gone. Your only interest in life now is the past—specifically reliving a brief but beautiful romance which took place in London many years ago, during the war.”

Veronika smiled at those words. “First love, I take it?” she asked, sipping on her drink.

Arnold nodded. “Yes, I'd give anything to relive it.”

Roarke looked at his daughter, wondering why exactly she was drinking instead of working. Arnold continued on: “It was a two day romance I never forgot. Her name was Francesca. I probably sound crazy...”

Veronika stood there, picturing romance in London many years ago, she was happily dizzy—although she wasn't sure if it was from the romantic thoughts or the alcohol.

Roarke shook his head at her, and turned his attention to Arnold. “I make no judgments. When I accepted your check for $50,000, I accepted your fantasy.”

“And you... you found her? A girl who looks exactly like Francesca? You briefed her...?”

“All details have been taken care of, Mr. Greenwood. Francesca, the London flat, the pub where you first met, they're all here on Fantasy Island. Everyone knows his or her role.”

Veronika was still there, off in her own little world. “A World War II romance... wow...” she whispered. Roarke looked at her. “My dear Veronika, don't you have something you need to do?”

She thought about it for a minute. “No, I don't think so.”

Roarke sighed. “Go see what Tattoo is doing.”

Veronika nodded, walking over to where her husband was.

Arnold Greenwood raised his glass to Roarke: “You're a magician.”

Roarke looked at him: “Some call me that...” he said, walking away. He walked over to where Paul Henley stood at a mini-bar, drinking. “Well, Mr. Henley, I trust your first sight of Fantasy Island isn't a disappointment? We have most creature comforts here. If you don't see what you want, simply ask for it.” he said, with a slight smile.

“Mr. Roarke, your words remind me of my own when I used to greet each new safari.”

Roarke chuckled.

“Why don't we just skip it?” Paul continued, a bit cold. 

Roarke's brow furrowed; a questioning look upon his face. “Skip it?” he inquired, “Fine then, let's get down to business. Your fantasy is that we try to kill you. We are ready. Are you?”

“Perhaps. Were you able to secure expert hunters?”

Roarke smiled, gesturing to the ice bucket which sat in front of them. “The ice bucket, Mr. Henley.”

All of a sudden, there was a gunshot from a rifle (and a scream from a young woman who ended up scared out of her mind), and the ice bucket fell from the bar, bullet hole right into it.

Veronika smiled as she put down the rifle. She was hidden in the bushes, staying that way like most hunters would. She was against hunting, but not against teaching a hunter a lesson—even if it was at his own game.

Roarke noticed the panic of his staff upon hearing the gunshot. “Carry on! It was nothing, just a little trick! A joke. Nothing to worry about!” 

His words seemed to calm them, and they went back about their business. Paul Henley sat there, staring at where the ice bucket had been. Roarke looked at him: “Expert enough, Mr. Henley?”

“So he's a good shot...”

“She.”

Paul's face became one of shock. “She? Hah. A woman can't shoot like that.”

“Oh I guarantee you she can. My daughter, Veronika, is an expert marksman—or if you prefer, markswoman. She prefers to hunt paper targets, however.”

Paul seemed a bit off put. “Still, doesn't prove much. Hunting paper is nothing like hunting the living.”

“Yes, well, she doesn't hunt living creatures... with the exception of yourself, however. As she said to me, 'he needs a taste of his own medicine, and I want to be the one to do it'.” Don't underestimate her, Mr. Henley. She is VERY dedicated.”

The confident look that once graced Paul's face faded as Roarke continued: “The hunt will begin tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock sharp. When you take to the bush from the beach house, you will take no weapon, except for a hunting knife. The hunt is divided into three phases, and they will be detailed to you one-by one. You may quit before or after any phase, but not during one. You may have your money back now or nevermore. How say you?”

“Tomorrow morning it is.”

“Fine. Now, I'll walk you to your Jeep, if you like. Your bungalow—we call it a beach house—is a good way off.”

The two men headed over to the Jeep, and Roarke spoke again: “You will find further instructions there.”

“My question to you, Roarke, what did you mean back there about your daughter being 'dedicated'?”

Roarke smiled widely. “You'll see, Henley. You'll see...”


	3. Chapter 3

Meanwhile, Tattoo had escorted Eunice Hollander-Baines to her beach house. She dismissed him, and walked inside. When she walked in, she seemed taken aback by her surroundings. The beach house looked just like the inside of a church! As soon as you walked in, there were rows of white pews, candles burning on pedestals. She looked about, walking down the aisle in between said pews, only stopping when she reached what was at the end... a casket.

The casket wasn't very ornate; it was grey in colour, with a salmon trim. On top of it were flowers—carnations—in the colours of pink and white. She placed her hands on it, and was startled when she heard a voice from behind her.

“Your room satisfactory, ma'am?” Roarke asked, standing near the door.

She looked at him, annoyed. “I don't appreciate the humour, Mr. Roarke. This is not a practical joke, nor simply idle curiosity.”

Roarke stepped closer to Eunice, as Veronika walked in, her curiosity getting the better of her.. “I had no way of knowing. The arrangements over the telephone were quite brief: “Mr. Roarke,” you said to me, as I recall, “my fantasy is that I attend my own funeral. Arrange it. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Someone needs the stick removed from their--”

“Veronika!” Roarke bellowed, annoyed. Veronika smiled at him.

“I'm just being honest!” she said, as Eunice gave her a cold glare. Veronika walked over to the casket, grimacing. “Father, I really hope you didn't pick the colours on this bloody thing. It's positively ghastly!”

“ _I_ picked those colours, thank you very much.” Eunice replied, matter-of-factly.

Veronika couldn't stop herself from laughing in the woman's face. “Oh my God. _You_ picked these colours? Are you colourblind?! Surely, I would want my final resting place to be beautiful, and not look like colours a cat would vomit!”

Eunice looked at her offended, as Roarke intervened. 

“Mrs. Hollander-Baines, I do apologise... my daughter can be very ill-behaved sometimes.” he said, giving Veronika a very disappointed look. Veronika simply smiled her trademark 'too innocent' smile, and began walking about the area.

“Now,” he continued, “as I said, you were quite brief...”

“Yes, well... it will all have to do.” she said, dismissively.

Veronika looked over at Eunice and her father, making a gesture towards the woman, which implied Eunice was an 'arid, catty, priss of a woman'. The look on Roarke's face was one of a man who was internally facepalming. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but Eunice interrupted: “I will say this much, and I will say only once! Any more disrespect out of that girl, and I will bring this island to its knees!”

“Apologies, again, Mrs. Hollander-Baines. I assure you, she won't be a problem.” Roarke replied, turning his attention to Veronika. “Isn't that right, Veronika?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes...” Veronika turned her attention to Eunice. “So! Now that this fiasco is over... why exactly do you want to attend your own funeral? Doesn't sound fun... unless you're gonna pop out in a G-String to surprise everyone! And then I'm not sure anyone would want to see that.”

The older woman ignored Veronika's G-String comment before answering: “My company has been in my family for many years. Passed down from father to son, father to daughter. I have to make sure I know who is loyal.”

Veronika seemed shocked by her response. “With family like that, who needs enemies!”

“I feel that some sort of conspiracy is going on.”

“And that's why you wanted this fantasy...” both Veronika and Roarke said at the same time.

“If I were to die suddenly, I wonder what would happen to all of it—my company.”

Roarke nodded: “As you requested, your husband, brother, and personal secretary are arriving for your funeral. There is also an unexpected mourner that you should know about...”

Eunice looked at him, confused.

“Your sister, Elizabeth.” he continued.

Eunice did not seem thrilled by this revelation. “Who asked her to come? She's got nothing to do with the family! She left us long ago...”

“Left?” Roarke inquired, “'Thrown out' is the way I heard it. At any rate, it seems she read the newspaper account—which, you do realize we had to put out. Also, it was on the radio--”

“Yes, I heard it. I was drowned at sea in a boating accident, and would be buried here on this island that I loved... my 'secret hideaway'.”

“Apparently, your sister read or heard the same story.”

“I suppose she's coming here to make sure she gets her share of the inheritance.”

“Possibly. Well, we'll find out, won't we? I mean, isn't that what this is all about? What would people say? What would people do if you were dead?”

“They would say I was devastatingly beautiful...” Veronika chimed in.

“Vanity, my dear Veronika, is a sin.”

Veronika rolled her eyes at her father's words. “And sins are forgiven, so who cares.”

“Mr. Roarke...” Eunice interjected, “is there any way I can be close by? You know, during the funeral? So I can see and hear what they have to say....”

“Indeed. Over here, please.” he said, leading her into a room off to the side. Inside the room was some sort of table, a mirror, and a mannequin. On the mannequin was a maid's outfit, complete with a rather unflattering dishwater blonde wig.

“You will be 'Miss Martin', one of the higher ranking servants.” Roarke walked over to the table, and picked up a pair of thick-rimmed, black colour glasses, and put them on Eunice. He then picked up what looked to be a glass candy jar, took off the lid, and handed it towards her. Inside were the top part of fake teeth—buck teeth, to be exact—and they slipped right over her own top teeth. Veronika was standing next to her, trying to refrain from laughing. 

Roarke then picked up a fake, but realistic-looking nose and handed it to his guest, which she also put on. It was a size or so bigger than her actual nose. 

Eunice looked at Roarke, concerned. “But, what about my voice?”

“I'd say you're here to listen, rather than talk.”


	4. Chapter 4

Across the island, the Jeep transporting Paul Henley finally arrived at his beach house. He hopped out, and watched as the Jeep went back to its starting point. He then walked inside the house. It was tidy, well decorated, and had everything needed to make one feel at home. Near the stairs, something caught Paul's eye. It was a circular gun rack, and on it were three rifles, one slightly bigger than the other two. On a small table near the wall, was a tape recorder, with playback functionality. There was a tape inside, and Paul pressed the play button. It was from Mr. Roarke, and it said:

_“My dear Mr. Henley,_

_These are the weapons to be used to kill you tomorrow. I've been told any of them can be used to stop a charging rhinoceros dead in its tracks, or a famous hunter. Since the hunt doesn't start until the morning, a relaxed evening has been planned for you. Excellent food, excellent wine, and an excellent partner for the night. Eat, drink, and be merry, old man! It's the last chance you have...”_

The tape recorder shut off. Paul Henley picked up one of the rifles, and studied it. It was much like ones he had used. He held it in a shooting position and pointed it at his reflection in the mirror, looking through the scope. He pulled the trigger, and since it was not loaded, nothing happened. He stared at himself in the mirror... he was really beginning to regret his decision.

***  
Back at the main house, Arnold Greenwood stood in front of a mirror, in his old military uniform. It fit like a glove. _“Not bad, Arnold.”_ he said to himself. _“Not bad at all.”_

Meanwhile, Roarke, Tattoo, and Veronika walked out to the front of the house, to greet some people who had just arrived. The people just happened to be the family of Eunice Hollander-Baines, and her personal secretary. 

“How do you do, Mr. Baines. Please accept my condolences on your tragic loss.” Roarke said, shaking the man's hand. 

Veronika and Tattoo also shook the man's hand, and exchanged a knowing look with one another. They didn't know how they'd be able to keep Eunice's fantasy a secret... it almost seemed wrong to put the family through this kind of suffering.

“Thank you, Mr. Roarke. Everyone.” Mr. Baines said. “This is my sister-in-law, Elizabeth.” he continued, gesturing towards the young, pretty, blonde to his right. Veronika looked at her... she was one of those girls that seemed flighty and airheaded at first glance. Even more so by the way she was obnoxiously chewing her gum.

“Liz will do.” Elizabeth said to them. “Flying shakes me up. Can I have a drink?”

Veronika smiled a bit. _“Okay, maybe she's not as flighty and airheaded as I thought!”_ she mused to herself.

“Oh certainly!” Roarke replied. “Miss Martin, why don't you see what Miss Hollander would like?”

“No, Father, Miss Martin has other things she should be doing. I know a thing or two about drinks on the island.” Veronika said, turning to Liz. “Come on, let's head to the bar. You strike me as a woman who likes... scotch?”

Liz laughed. “On the rocks. Not too many rocks either.”

Roarke shook his head as the girls headed off.

Mr. Baines continued introducing the rest of the family: “This is Charles Hollander, my brother-in-law.” he said of the man across from him. 

“Beautiful place, Mr. Roarke. I can see why my sister loved it so.” Charles said, shaking his hand. 

Mr. Baines pointed to the woman next to Charles. “This is Connie Raymond, my wife's secretary.” Connie was a relatively pretty woman, dark hair, doe eyed, a small nose. Not exactly what one would think of when they hear “secretary”.

“To let you all know, dinner will be served around 8 o'clock, in case you would like to rest a bit and freshen up. Tattoo will show you to your rooms.”

Tattoo began to lead them towards their rooms, when Mr. Baines stopped to talk to Roarke a moment. Connie stayed next to him. “I'm sorry for the last minute guest, Mr. Roarke. We had no idea Liz would be with us. There was no love lost between my wife and her sister. I tried to stop her coming, but--”

“Grant!” Connie interrupted. “Don't let her get to you.”

Roarke—along with 'Miss Martin'--couldn't help but notice the overly affectionate way Connie was hanging onto Mr. Baines' arm. Neither of them said anything. Mr. Baines and Connie went heading to their rooms, as Roarke walked over to Eunice.

“She never called him Grant in front of me...” she said, slightly annoyed.

“Well, life goes on for the living.” Roarke replied, nonchalantly.

“So soon...” There was a tone of disgust in Eunice's voice. 

“Madam, I conduct—arrange, if you will—these fantasies, but I am not, as the saying goes, responsible for their content.” Roarke walked away, heading off to take Arnold Greenwood to the start of his fantasy.


	5. Chapter 5

The Jeep pulled up to what looked to be a beach house, and Roarke got out, along with Arnold. 

“Here we are, Lieutenant.” 

Arnold looked around. “This is it?”

“Go inside, you'll see.”

“She'll be there?”

“Everything will be exactly as it was.”

Arnold headed in, as Roarke got back inside the Jeep. When he opened the door he was stunned by what he saw. The inside of the beach house looked just like the pub where he and Francesca first met!He closed the door and looked around. Everything was as it was, as Roarke said it would be... except... it was empty. He walked to the bar and picked up an empty glass, and began walking to a table. He sat down and memories began to come to him, he could hear the music playing, patrons being loud... he snapped out of his thoughts, somehow, someway, the bar was full!

The revelry was interrupted by an air raid siren. 

“Alright, lads and lassies, you 'eard it!” The bartender said with his thick accent, “Bar's closed! Down to the shelters we go. Keep track of your own bill, alright?!”

Everyone began heading to the shelter, except for Arnold. He sat back down at the table, beer in hand.

Everything went silent. He had been dreaming... Or had he?

He sat there, in the silence, empty glass in hand. He walked over to the bar to fill it, and heard a voice: “That'll be six pence, yank.” 

He turned around, and standing there, was a blonde woman, slightly older than one would have thought, wearing a powder blue dress.

“Francesca...” he whispered.

She smiled sweetly. “You did hear the air raid siren?”

“I'm a fatalist about German bombs.”

“A thirsty fatalist.”

“Parched. Are you a fatalist too?”

Francesca shook her head. “Nuh-uh. Just curious. You ducked away instead of going down. 'He's a very brave man' I said to myself.”

“Well, you were wrong to yourself. He's claustrophobic, just hates small rooms with people in it.”

Francesca laughed. “Me too. I go nuts in a shelter... that's really why I'm still up here. My name is Francesca Hamilton.”

They shook hands. “Arnold Greenwood. Well... what's an American girl doing in London?”

“My folks came here a few years back and loved it. We decided we wouldn't let a little war scare us away.”

“I'll toast that.” Arnold said, lifting his glass. “Cheers, Francesca.”

“Cheers, Arnold.”

“Music?” he asked, pointing towards the jukebox. 

“Only if I don't have to sing along.” Francesca said, rolling her eyes.

“You don't have to dance either, but it'd be nice.”

They walked over to the jukebox together.

“Oh, I don't mind dancing. It's my profession.”

“What do you teach?”

“Ballet.”

“A ballerina...”

“No no no... chorus. But don't worry, I promise to dance badly.”

“I don't think you would know how to dance badly.” Arnold said, putting money in the jukebox and selecting a song. 

The song was a slow jazz melody, and the two began to dance.

“You dance beautifully. Must be the uniform.” said Francesca.

“Oh no, they've been showing us Fred Astaire pictures, instead of training films.”

Francesca laughed. “I like that, Alan.”

“Arnold.”

“I'm sorry...” she replied, her face one of confusion.

“It's alright. I'll be Alan if you want me to.”

“No, I like Arnold.”

“Good. Arnold like you too.”

It was silent a few minutes, before Arnold spoke again: “Have dinner with me tonight, Francesca.”

“But sir... this is so sudden.” she replied, innocently.

“Mmhmm. So is my two-day pass. Please?”

Francesca chewed her bottom lip, thinking. “We'll cook in. My apartment okay?”

“If you insist.”

They continued dancing.

“It's a nice air raid.”

“Terrific.”

Arnold couldn't see, but Francesca suddenly seemed a bit put off.

Roarke watched them through the window. Clearly, he knew something they didn't.


	6. Chapter 6

Night fell on the island, and Paul Henley entered his dining area, table filled with good food, and wine. 

“Very nice.” he said, aloud.

A few seconds later, Tattoo walked in. “Mr. Henley?” he asked.

Paul turned around and looked at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Complements of Mr. Roarke...” Tattoo continued, as a beautiful young woman walked in. She had on a long blue dress, and her dark brown hair was done in an elegant style. 

“This is a fantasy I didn't expect.” Paul said, slightly surprised.

“Enjoy.”

“I'll try...”

Tattoo winked at the man, and headed out the door. The woman took Paul's hand, and shook it. “My name is Michelle.”

“Hello Michelle. I'm--”

“I know. Paul Henley. Hunter, mountain climber, jet-setter in khaki.”

“Oh boy... that really sounds terrible.” he said with a chuckle. “Are you a friend of Mr. Roarke? Or did he hire you?”

“Anyone who hires me is my friend.”

“Did he tell you why I was here?”

“Everything. Except why you want to kill yourself.”

“Is that what you think I want to do?”

“A hunter who wants to be hunted? Isn’t it obvious?”

“I'm sure Mr. Roarke wouldn’t want us to waste a whole evening discussing my moves.” Paul said, changing the subject.

“Now, what _would_ Mr. Roarke want us to do?”

“Well, I think he'd say 'let's enjoy the wine'.”

Michelle sat down at the table, and Paul picked up a bottle of wine that was on the table.

“1961. A very good year.” he said, pouring them a glass each. “Leave it to Mr. Roarke and his excellent taste.”

***

Meanwhile, Francesca Hamilton was practicing ballet in her flat, when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in." she called, never stopping. 

In walked Arnold Greenwood, with a handful of flowers.

"Welcome." Francesca replied. 

He handed her the flowers. "For me?" she asked. 

Arnold nodded.

"Thank you. They're sweet... you're sweet." she said, kissing him.

"Well, if you're gonna kiss me every time I give you flowers..." he took the flowers back from her, and presented them to her again. "Here."

"No thank you. I already have some." she said, coyly.

"You really are Francesca." Arnold said.

"Well... that's me. Odd name isn't it. My grandfather was Russian... which brings me to dinner. I bet you can't guess what we're having."

"Lasagna."

Francesca looked a bit disturbed.

"How did you know? You must be psychic."

Arnold began to make elaborate hand gestures. "The Swami sees... something burning in the oven."

"My lasagna!! That's how you knew!" Francesca yelled, running to the kitchen. As she opened the oven and began seeing if her lasagna was salvageable, Arnold began to make himself comfortable, taking off his jacket, sitting on the sofa, and beginning to read a newspaper that was on the table.

The newspaper's headline read "Allies repulsed at Nettuno".

A few seconds later, Francesca came out of the kitchen. "All is well. Saved by the Swami." She turned off a light in the living area. "Now, Arnold Greenwood, tell me all about yourself."

"How many words?" he asked. "You see that's the way they assign out stories, they say 'give us fifteen words on Eva Braun, give us a thousand words on General Montgomery but make it something personal, like 'what does he wear to bed?'."

Francesca looked at him. "So, what do you wear to bed?" 

"Well," Arnold said with a laugh. "If its cold enough, I wear a flannel nightgown."

"And a funny flannel hat too?"

"I would if I had one."

"You will. For Christmas! Now, tell me all about yourself, Arnold Greenwood. Take all the words you need."

"Well, I'm unmarried, I'm unengaged. I am a combat correspondent attached to Ike's staff. That's it."

"Were you a reporter in civilian life?"

"No, but I was on the college paper. Until they kicked me out of college. And I was 4F for the army, bummed eardrums. How about you?"

"My eardrums are fine."

"No no..." Arnold said, wagging a finger. "Married?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

"No."

"Going steady?"

"Nope."

"Why? You're bright, you're bubbly, and you're beautiful."

"And bored with the men I meet. Or met, anyhow."

"I haven’t met anyone who is interested in me either. Until this afternoon at the pub. But then, you're not new to me. "

Francesca looked confused. "What do you mean? Deja vu or something?"

"No... nothing spooky or anything like that. Just that I... I've searched... waited. Waited is a better word... I've waited all of my grown-up life for someone like you to come along and now, here you are." he said, taking her hand.

 

"I think I'm already falling in love with you, Francesca." he continued. 

She looked even more confused.

"You don't have to say anything just because I did... except maybe, 'excuse me, I'd like to go check the lasagna'." Arnold said.

"You're a nice man, Arnold." she said, kissing him again. She got up and headed back into the kitchen. 

Arnold got up and began to walk around the living area of the apartment. He walked to the far left side of the apartment and into where Francesca's bed was. 

He looked at himself in her mirror, and looked at her bed. Suddenly, he jumped backwards. Something startled him, but what was it?


	7. Chapter 7

Back at Paul Henley's beach house, he and Michelle were on the patio drinking wine and enjoying each others' company.

"Yummy. May I have more?" asked Michelle, downing a whole glass of wine.

"I'm afraid it might keep you awake, and we have to get up with the sun tomorrow. Hunt starts at eight."

"I'll pack you a picnic lunch tonight. Don't wake me." she kissed him, with a kiss that had some obvious saliva swapping.

"Where did Mr. Roarke find you?"

"Please, no questions..." she said, kissing him again.

They walked back into the house, and Tattoo came out from behind the bushes, where he had been watching. Roarke came up behind him, with Veronika following.

"Did you get the clothes? And the keys?" Roarke asked his diminutive assistant.

"Yes, yes! I didn't forget! Do I ever forget?" Tattoo asked.

"I forgot." Roarke replied.

Tattoo winked at his boss and took off, with the wheelbarrow of clothes. Roarke walked off, leaving Veronika standing there. She looked at her father, then back at Tattoo—well, at least, the direction he was heading—and decided to run to catch up with him.

***

The next morning, Paul was awoken at 8 o'clock sharp, by Roarke's voice on the intercom.

"Hello. Time to wake up. It's 8 am. Time for the hunt! Come, Mr. Henley. Soon your life is on the line."

Paul and Michelle looked at each other. They realized their clothes were different... and they were handcuffed to each other.

"We have no time to waste," Roarke's voice said through the intercom. "Even now, Veronika has a clear shot on you through your open terrace window."

Before Paul and Michelle could process what Roarke just said, a gunshot was heard and the bullet whizzed right by both of their heads. Michelle screamed.

"Stay down!" Paul yelled. "Roarke! You never said anything about her being handcuffed to me! That wasn't in the rules!"

"There are no rules on Fantasy Island. Except as I make them. Now, I suggest you move out the front door and into the jungle. It's dangerous where you both are now. The next shot will be firing in five seconds."

Paul dragged Michelle off the bed and out the front door, into the jungle. As they ran, Michelle tripped and fell flat on her face, landing with a thud. As Paul reached down to help her up, another shot rang out, hitting close to Michelle’s face. 

“Hello, Mr. Henley.” Veronika said, aiming her rifle at Paul and Michelle. 

“Don’t shoot, please!” Michelle begged.

“….maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Oh, who am I kidding? I will! But not for another twenty minutes.”

Just then, Roarke’s voice came over a loudspeaker, which, oddly enough, was in a tree.

“Phase One, Mr. Henley, is a hunting preserve. Surely you remember those? Usually they’re owned by Kings and Maharajas; this one is owned by me. One hundred yards directly north, there is a red flag. You must get there in twenty minutes time or Nika will start shooting to kill.”

There was an eerie silence, and Veronika smirked at her targets.

Paul then broke the silence: “Twenty minutes to go a hundred yards, Roarke? What’s the catch?”

Veronika spoke before her father could: “Traps!” she said, happily. “You know, like the ones you used on those poor animals?”

“Very cute...” replied Paul, annoyed.

“You still have a choice, Henley.” Roarke said through the loudspeaker. “Phase One; go or no go?”

“Why the girl? Why put her through this?”

Veronika rolled her eyes at Paul’s question.

Roarke ignored what he had just been asked and continued: “Yes or no?”

“Yes, dammit.”

Michelle then piped up: “Don’t I have anything to say about this?”

“You had your say when you took this job.” Roarke responded, coldly.

“You dirty--” Michelle was then interrupted by Roarke: “Sticks and stones!” he said in a sing-song way. “Twenty minutes, Mr. Henley.”

Veronika stared at them as she loaded her rifle. “Time is ticking.” she said. “You idiots might want to get a move on.”

Paul glared at her before turning his attention to Michelle. “You walk when I walk, you stop when I stop, or I might just have to cut your arm off and go at this alone. You understand that?”

The brunette nodded, and they headed off, past Veronika and deeper into the jungle.

Roarke called out from the loudspeaker again: “Twenty minutes, Henley. Or Veronika will start shooting… to kill.” he said, stressing that final point.

Henley chuckled as they ran further onwards.

They were going through some heavy brush, when suddenly Paul stopped Michelle from going any further.

“What is it?” she asked, annoyed.

Paul gestured up towards a vine growing from a tree. “That vine… the leaves are withered, dead.”

“Leaves die on vines, don’t they?” Michelle asked, in an air-headed sort of way.

“Usually fall first. It’s an animal trap.. dead vine used as a release wire.”

“To release what?”

“All kinds of nasty little surprises.”

“We can go under it, can’t we?”

Paul looked around, looking for an alternate way.

“We’re gonna have to.”

They took a couple of steps when Paul grabbed Michelle and stopped her, crouching.

“Oh now what!?”

He moved some of the grass—the grass they were about to walk on—and revealed a trip wire.

“Tricky little devils...” he said. “While we’re trying to avoid that vine over there, we were to stumble over this. This is the real release wire. Watch.”

Paul then pulled the trip wire, and an arrow launched out, hitting the tree in the exact spot he and Michelle would have been standing. Michelle screamed.

“Good show, Henley!” Roarke’s voice sounded from the loudspeaker. 

“He’s really insane!” Michelle stammered.

“Ten minutes are gone, Henley. Ten minutes to go! You’ve only covered fifty yards. Fifty yards to go...” Roarke continued.

“We’ll never make it...”

“Come on,” Paul said to Michelle, beginning to drag her off.

“You’re insane too!”

“How does it feel to be the hunted, Mr. Henley?” Roarke asked.

“Exhilarating, Mr. Roarke. Never felt better.” Henley replied.

Just then, Michelle noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was a large snake, slithering across a tree branch. She screamed, and tried to run away, but fell right into a pit, dangling by the handcuff attached to hers and Paul’s wrists. It was a good thing the handcuffs were strong; at the bottom of the pit were spikes. 

As Paul tried to pull Michelle from the pit, the snake began to make its way to him. 

“Quite a dilemma, eh Henley?” Roarke asked, a mocking tone in his voice. “Fourteen minutes gone.”

Paul pulled out his knife. 

“Good boy! Cut her arm off!”

However, much to Roarke’s dismay, he stuck the knife into the ground next to him, using it as leverage as he pulled his companion out of the deadly trap. He finally got her out of the pit, and they came to their feet, running off into the depths of the jungle.

“Elapsed time: sixteen minutes.” Roarke called.

Paul and Michelle crossed the river, having to wade through it, and came out a clearing up a hill, when suddenly they heard a roar. There was a tiger on a chain, and it really wanted to eat them. Upon seeing this, Michelle fainted. Paul picked her up and was trying to find a way around the large cat when, he again heard Roarke’s voice.

“Jungle Standard Time: Eighteen minutes gone.”

As the tiger blocked Paul’s attempts at escape, he got an idea. He noticed the tiger’s chain was secure to the tree, so he simply stayed right on the edge of the tiger’s reach, and walked around it.

“Splendid! Superb! Genius!” said Roarke. 

Paul tripped and fell on the ground, causing Michelle to—quite comically—flop off of his shoulder. He picked her up, placing her back onto his shoulder, as Roarke called out again: “Thirty seconds left!”

Veronika—whom was hiding in the brush—lifted her rifle, and prepared her shot. Paul began to run, and ran past the opening, and narrowly missed being hit by the bullet.

A few seconds later, he reached the flag, marking the end of phase one. He collapsed on the ground once more. 

“Cease firing! He’s made it!” announced Roarke.  
Veronika pouted. She really wanted to shoot him.

“Don’t pull that trigger!” Roarke scolded, as if he could read his daughter’s mind. He then turned his attention to the victim. “Congratulations, Mr. Henley. You were superb.

“To Hell with you, Roarke!” Paul yelled, angrily. Veronika, who wasn’t one to let ANYONE disrespect her father, approached and slapped the daylights out of Henley, using the butt of her rifle. Michelle, who by this time was awake, stared at her, wide-eyed.

“I suggest you keep your whore mouth shut, unless you want to get decked too.” Veronika said, walking back into the brush of the jungle.


End file.
